| A lightning summary of the last year (one year game time; five years real time) of campaign developments... |

With Inigo Gottfried--rightful Lord of the rural Barony that is these Hinterlands--reputedly campaigning in far off Xanadu these past several years, most now openly acknowledge the possibility he may never return. In his absence the Traders' Concourse were granted executive power, but woe! wily Goblin Traders managed to buy and bribe themselves into Council Seats with their cunning talk and inexhaustible silver. Behind a veneer of sugar-coated politics they worked industriously at corrupting Ket from within, while more menacing forces beyond the town walls were left largely unchecked that whole year. Trade routes between Radjemia and Maine--and the inner Kingdom--were soon stifled by hard-lined Hobgoblin-enforced taxes and, later, outright thuggery and robbery. With all trade suspended, and Ket totally isolated, martial law was imposed by the Goblin Trader Grumolg, and Hobgoblin forces invited into the town itself. Soon the Goblin masterminds made their play; a proper army swept down from the Hinterlands to occupy Ket, virtually unopposed!

A long long, cruel winter passed with the formerly prosperous trade town under Goblin rule. The grim news spread by weary foot and muddy backtrail, 'til even the far off Lords in Maine did hear...

Spring dawns to find the Hinterlands are a turmoil! Soldiery is come now from neighboring baronies, from Maine, and from even farther off. Not all these Men are scrupulous sorts; many are scarcely more than brigands and ribalds, looking to contrive a personal gain from the torrid misfortunes of others. Yet there must still be some Men of valorous heart out there, somewhere... surely?

The plains hereabouts are dotted with the encampments of various minor nobles, mercenary companies, brigands, hobgoblin forces, and the inevitable refugees. The strengths that all concerns can muster are assembling. Dozens of skirmishes and several pitched battles are rumored to have been fought already, and it is abundantly clear there will be further fighting. The prize: Ket itself.

The fortified camp of Captain Kord Manfred is a muddy ruckus of activity overspilling its basic trench and stakeline to sprawl over a hundred yards of tents, feedlots, and makeshift shantytown. It's as settled a place as his 200 strong force of men-at-arms are likely to see this campaign season, and it's as safe a home as the 300+ refugees there are likely to find. For all its semblance of regular village activity it is a military encampment; a strict military chain of command is observed by Manfred's ranks. Ket lies within two days march to the north of north-west; an uneasy distance for the veterans, but comfortably beyond sight of the refugees. The Hinterlands are an ever present slab of rough, grey hills that rise steeply to the east and cast an early shadow across the camp each evening. Manfred has scouts and riders overlooking those hills continually, the gossips say, to forewarn of any threat...

Just yesterday, a pair of trackers scampered back into camp with proper news to tell. Tongues were soon waggin'; these lads were supposed to have spotted a goblin stronghold in the nearby hills; a wee fastness brooding over a complex of mines, they say. Unbelievably, it's only two days good hiking, three at most, south-east of Manfred's position. All day yesterday the talk was about the goblin fort being undermanned; their chief force supposedly being committed toward Ket. There was talk that Manfred would soon organise a contingent of hard Men to sort the goblins out. That may be, but meanwhile Men with their own motivations are speculatin' 'bout putting together a private venture of their own...

Here is the muddy, fortified camp of Captain Kord Manfred's forces, and the ruckus of several hundred refugees who have made the perimeter a makeshift shanty-town. You can find almost every good or service you would expect of any thriving village... and better; there is every possibility of encountering adventuresome sorts!

Alfwin has been stuck in the Encampment for what seems a long time. A simple journey to Ket proved to be ill-conceived when he found out the town was taken by a goblin horde. So here he waited for some sign of what to do, or where to go next. As news of the goblin base spreads through the Encampment his interest peeks up. Off he would wander to see if others greet the news with talk of "exploration".

Alfwin would approach any mercenary type he spots and ask them, leadenly in common,"have you heard of the Goblin mines that have been reported? They say that if those should fall the Goblins will be cut off, and of course there will be rewards."

A grizzled Dwarf draws on his pipe-stem, squints wistfully into the bowl, and taps the ashes out into the palm of his mitt-sized hand. "Pipeweed? Pipeweed?" he asks each stranger as he moves about the camp.

The Red Baron wrote:"I've pinch of ol' westbridge leaf for you,"Dopey offered. The hobbet sat under a rowan tree, puffing his pipe. "Pipeweed's the one thing I didn't forget to pack when I set out from home."

"Bless my beard!" says the Dwarf. "It is not every day you see a Hobbet in this part of the world." His voice is deep and gravelly (even for a Dwarf), like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon and left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months. He drops his pack and 10' pole, cracks his back, and squats down under the spreading branches of the old gathering tree. He pops the cork on his skin of wine (a thick and vinegary Dwarfish vintage) and offers a swig to his new friend.

A tall youth steps up behind the dwarf and sniffs the air long and loudly, "Ahhh... Boggs, my old friend. I thought I might find you if I simply followed the stench of," he wrinkles his nose, "pipeweed. No offense, master hobbet. Name's Leudigar."

He plops down next to the burly dwarf, "Tried looking for you in Ket, but," he waves his hand around at the camp. "Never made it there, so I figured I'd try here..."

His amicable smile suddenly drops and he looks at the muddy ground in front of them. "No easy way to say this, mate. They're gone, Boggs. Mum, Da, Emma... whole village, actually. Burned out by a snark raiding party. I was out on a hunt; getting harder and harder to find any hind worth killing these days, so I was gone longer than intended. Anyway, by the time I got back home, all the fires had burned out. Everything was... cold."